


A Hogswatch Warble (or, The Ankh-Morpork City Watch Hogswatch Night Play)

by Goonlalagoon



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: A lot of them are brief appearances, Gen, I started writing this two years ago and after the first paragraph it just sort of...floated, cross-posted from tumblr, finished it up for Christmas this year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-28 01:58:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17173673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goonlalagoon/pseuds/Goonlalagoon
Summary: “It’s for charity, sir,” Carrot had said, well-intentioned enthusiasm radiating from his clean scrubbed face.“It would reinforce the Watch’s public image,” Vetinari had said, impassive and decidedly not smirking in a way that managed to imply that smirking had been considered as an option but ultimately dismissed, and was therefore actually more aggravating than a smirk would have been.“Oh, what a lovely idea!” Sybil had said. “Young Sam will love it, I must buy tickets for us both.”And that had been that. The thought of disappointing either, or worse, both of Sybil and Young Sam had been too awful to bear. And so, Commander Vimes, reluctant Duke of Ankh and enthusiastic blackboard monitor, found himself scowling over a sheaf of papers on the afternoon of Hogswatch eve, frantically trying yet again to memorise his lines.





	A Hogswatch Warble (or, The Ankh-Morpork City Watch Hogswatch Night Play)

**Author's Note:**

> I have been trying to write this for the better part of two years. Post Christmas at that point, I had just seen ‘the play that goes wrong’ on TV, and had a conversation in the Young Wizard’s slack that I think went something along the lines of ‘it’s a very Discworld set up’, though I can’t remember the details.
> 
> I got the first two paragraphs written and then never went back to it. I meant to finish it up last year and got distracted with other fic, and promised myself I’d get it done before Christmas this year.
> 
> Well…by about half an hour, I managed?
> 
> Happy Hogswatch, folks.

“It’s for charity, sir,” Carrot had said, well-intentioned enthusiasm radiating from his clean scrubbed face.

“It would reinforce the Watch’s public image,” Vetinari had said, impassive and decidedly not smirking in a way that managed to imply that smirking had been considered as an option but ultimately dismissed, and was therefore actually more aggravating than a smirk would have been.

“Oh, what a lovely idea!” Sybil had said. “Young Sam will love it, I _must_ buy tickets for us both.”

And that had been that. The thought of disappointing either, or worse, _both_ of Sybil and Young Sam had been too awful to bear. And so, Commander Vimes, reluctant Duke of Ankh and enthusiastic blackboard monitor, found himself scowling over a sheaf of papers on the afternoon of Hogswatch eve, frantically trying yet again to memorise his lines.

From the mess hall could be heard the thump of hammers and the inevitable yelps as DIY incompetent watchmen incurred assorted minor injuries that Vimes would probably have to sign paperwork about later. In his basement lab Igor was still hard at work with needle and thread, grumbling because Vimes had banned him from adding lightning into the special effects. Across the city, the usual watchman a cry of “alls well” - or, more frequently, this being Ankh Morpork, “oi, you over there” or “argh send backuppleasenow!” - was replaced by such frankly terrifying theatrical declarations as to significantly suppress criminal activity for the day out of sheer puzzlement.

* * *

“This,” said Reg Shoe mournfully, “is blatant anti-undead propaganda.” He waved the script in the air. “I mean, _really._ I’m dead and do you see me rattling chains and haunting my old colleagues, showing them the error of their ways?” Colon’s brow wrinkled in slight bemusement and Nobby industriously chewed on the end of his dog end cigarette before tucking it behind one ear.  
“Weeelll, point of fact Reggie…we are technically colleagues of a sort from before your, erm…untimely death and you spent four hours yesterday telling me I had no moral fibre and lacked principles, and Fred that he showed an abysmal grasp of social politics, which prob'ly counts, all things considered.” Fred nodded.  
“I’ve never seen you rattle a chain, though, I’ll give you that.”

* * *

Vimes looked at the crowded mess hall through a gap in the curtain. He turned to the others with a look of panic.  
“I can’t do this,” he hissed, “I’m a copper, not an actor!” Angua looked like she was trying not to laugh at him, but Carrot clapped him firmly on the shoulder and gave him a bright, earnest smile.  
“You’ll do splendidly, sir, don’t worry.”  
Nobby nodded, confident in his role as the only copper there who had in fact taken part in any theatrical proceedings at all since he was aged ten and a half.*1  
“Yeah, sir, you’ve just got to let the moment take you. Live the character and they’ll see it too.”

It was later concluded that this may not have been the best advice.

* * *

 _Live the character,_ thought Vimes frantically, staring down at the sheet of paper resting on the duty desk they’d dragged onto the makeshift stage. He clutched a pencil in one hand in a white knuckled grip as he listened to Captain Carrot announcing The Ankh Morpork City Watch’s Hogswatch Play: A Hogswatch Warble (now with flying mince pie scene)*2

The well intentioned cheer seeped through the curtain, a long spiel of a speech that with any luck no one would remember a word of, because like all of Carrot’s speeches it was painfully earnest and did terrible things to the run on sentence. Through the haze of panic at his approaching theatrical debut, Vimes heard the polite clapping…the tread of boots that to his ears was the tread of the approaching executioner…and a chink of light spilled over the stage as the curtains were pulled somewhat jerkily back to reveal Scrooge sitting at his desk, alone except for the figure of a neat man whose mere appearance screamed accountant.

In theory, Bob Craitchet was supposed to be huddled over, but A.E. Pessimal could do nothing but sit ramrod straight at a desk. He was scratching busily away and muttering to himself, and Vimes definitely caught the words ‘weekly budget expenditure on biscuit assortments…’, which raised the suspicion that with hit typical efficiency the man was actually doing the last few bits and pieces of work for the year while on stage.

Vimes glared at his own sheet of paper, which thankfully had his first lines written on it in clear, blocky letters.

He got through the first grumbling sentences manfully, scowling fiercely and occasionally remembering to look up at the audience. Pessimal delivered his own responses in the dry tones he spoke with on a daily basis, remembering only as he reached the end of his calculations on auto-pilot that he was supposed to sound sad and overburdened, and not like a man who has just finished calculating all of the Watch budgets for the next financial year and so can rest easy on Hogswatch day in the knowledge that He Got The Job Done Right.

Carrot bounced onto the stage to make his opening as Vimes’s nephew, face exuding cheer and goodwill, which was normal, and talking about hosting a fancy get together to which ‘you are most cordially invited, dear uncle, where the whole family will rejoice at your presence’, which was not. Vimes was starting to relax, if nothing else because now he was sharing the stage with Pessimal and Carrot, neither of whom had ever won a prize for acting and weren’t about to start now. If he was going to make a bloody fool of himself, at least he wasn’t doing it alone.

Besides, he’d heard enough miserly old nobles grumbling about charity and the laziness of the poor and counting their gold pieces as though that made them somehow better than the ones who didn’t have enough coppers to count to rattle of his next lines on autopilot once the two ‘charity collectors’ came in. Constable Visit was so used to this that he actually kept talking instead of waiting for his next line, declaring how the path of Om was the one True Path*3

And then Carrot, playing the role of well-intentioned nephew, made one more impassioned plea in the name of Hogswatch, and Vimes drew on all of the rage of the Commander of the Watch faced with insubordination in the face of paperwork.

“Fred, I _demand_ you leave this room at once, that I may continue my work in peace without distraction of that cursed word, ‘Hogswatch’. Hogswatch, hah, mere hogs _wash_ I declare…” He trailed off, as one of the two aspiring charitable folk shot him a somewhat wounded and befuddled look, and turned to march off stage while Vimes and Carrot stared.

It is worth noting at this point that thanks to shift rotas, illness, and poorly timed calls for Hot Pursuit, the cast had in fact failed to have a single run through with all member present.

This is worth noting because, thanks to particularly spectacular coincidence, this meant that they had at no point encountered the difficulties of having a character named Fred in a play in which Fred Colon was also playing a handful of supporting parts.

This realisation dawned on Vimes as he gathered himself to utter his temporary alias’ trademark phrase to get things back on track while Carrot followed in the Sargent’s wake, and unfortunately the realisation had a certain overlap in rhythm.  
“Oh, _bugger_ …”

* * *

Trying desperately to ignore the fact that he was wearing a sock on his head and a pair of pyjamas in front of a lot of his colleagues and an audience full of Ankh-Morporkians, Vimes stared in horror at the apparition approaching him.  
Not that Reg Shoe was inherently unsettling, certainly not when you were used to him, but at the unnatural glow around him. Zombies certainly were not supposed to emit a greenish aura, but it appeared that Igor, bereft of his beloved lightning in a jar, had instead turned to other avenues of special effects. _Dear gods,_ thought Vimes, fascinated and horrified, _the man is actually covered in ground up vurms!_

It was enough to make his skin itch. But effective, he had to admit, as the glow faded gradually and left the stage in pitch black, Reg’s voice drifting eerily out of the dark. Unfortunately the bit of demon trapped in Vimes’ arm decided now would be a helpful moment for him to have a fit of Darkvision, and he could see just how many faces were watching him from the audience. He wondered if this was the Summoning Dark’s idea of a joke.  
_  
_

_Break a leg, mister Vimes._

* * *

In her role of the first Spirit, Cheery peered up at him, moving painfully slowly so as not to dislodge her headgear. Vimes at this point was walking through a haze of terror at the creativity and lack of common sense behind the props, costume and special effects department of the Watch play. Whose bright idea had it been to weld candlesticks onto an old helmet? If Cheery turned around too quickly, or gods forbid trip, then the entire stage would be ablaze. Her eyes blinked up at him, slightly terrified, as wax dripped past her nose. It splattered onto the toe of her shoes, which were Dwarf fashion and therefore coated in metal, thus saving her feet.

Vimes’ words started blurring together, and he sort of lost track of what he was saying. _Live the character, right? So what would a miserly old Scrooge say to a flaming spirit who’d appeared in the middle of the night…_

It may not have been part of the plot, but Cheery looked distinctly relieved to no longer be wearing a lit chandelier on her head, even if it was going to take a while to get the water out of her beard and she now squelched as she walked. Vimes waved the now-empty pitcher for emphasis as he ranted against the whims of spirits, disturbing a man from his slumber and the softness of his pillows (a matter on which he had the strong opinions of one who had spent much of his life with little sleep and not much in the way of luxury bedding).

And it gave the Watchmen playing stagehands time to rearrange the furniture around them. Cheery waited until he paused for breath and belted out her next line, feeling that the improvised lecture on the merits of duck down versus goose down could probably be cut short for the purposes of the plot.  
“And now I bid ye, remember! Remember when ye were young, and your heart was light!”

Someone in the audience snickered, and Vimes glared in the general direction. He didn’t need Angua’s ears to know that the mutter accompanying it was something along the lines of ‘yeah, right, ol’ Stoneface, young and lighthearted?’

Angua, taking the stage with the poise and grace she’d learnt at finishing school, had a carefully blank face that suggested that she’d heard exactly what was being whispered. Fred trailed onto the stage from the other side, face set and eyes gleaming with a terror shared by Vimes as a solo cello started on a waltz theme. Angua was definitely trying not to laugh, though from the gleam of reflected light she’d taken some of Cheery’s fashion advice to protect her feet.

He squared his shoulders. He was the Commander of the Watch; he could waltz for thirty three seconds (Pessimal had timed it) and then ramble about how dreadfully short sighted he could be as his once beloved stormed off, and if he was very lucky everyone would neglect to ever talk about this again out of solidarity.

Angua snickered.

* * *

“Ah, Fred, what stories of my youth I could tell you…that you would never believe -”  
Fred Colon’s brow wrinked, the feathered hat that was part of Fezziwig’s costume slipping sideways to hang from one ear.  
“You feeling all right, Sam? I’ve _known_ you since your youth…”

* * *

The Spirit of Hogswatch Present was the part of the play that Vimes had been most infuriated by. It was just so… _condescending._

It was also, inarguably, impossible to look heart-warmed and inspired to be a better man by Nobby Nobbs pretending to be eating a meagre supper while guilelessly inspiring his parents to be Better People. Nobby Nobbs had never been guileless in his life, and the thought of the Corporal inspiring anyone to be a better man was laughable.

Detritus had neglected to learn any of his lines. Realising belatedly that he therefore couldn’t indicate to Mister Vimes that they needed to cross the stage so that they could reappear two minutes later when the set had been moved around a bit, he took the straightforward approach. Slinging the Commander over one shoulder, he ambled across the stage to exit two.  
_At least I’ve lost the dammned nightcap,_ thought Vimes.

* * *

How, thought Vimes, how did we not realise that having Fred Colon playing Aimless Guest Three at a party held by a character named Fred would not lead to some humerous confusion? Oh, and here came the mince pie. As it sailed out of the crowd towards him, part of the ‘harmless japes and frivolity’ of the celebration, it occurred to Vimes that he had left the procurement of the pie to Captain Carrot.

Who was a very _literal_ young man…

At the last moment, Vimes remembered to close not only his eyes but his mouth.

In the audience, the Librarian thoughtfully crunched on a peanut, watching ground pork sliding to the floor. Dibbler’s finest, it started to eat through the floor by the Commander’s foot. Novel, certainly; he still preferred the classic custard splatter, but he could admit this was an entertaining alternative.

* * *

Vimes was still wiping gravy away from his eyes when the third spirit stepped out from behind a curtain. In a swirling black cloak, with fine mesh shielding the face, it was impossible to tell who was playing the spirit of the Future. As it beckoned to him, something white drifted through the air by his face. Bewildered, Vimes looked up.

It was snowing. He shared a momentary look with the hooded figure, and they glanced at one into the wings, where Igor was happily occupied with some kind of device that looked fit to explode any moment. Vimes groaned. _Next time, I am just going to let him have the lightning…_

He slipped and slithered his way over the treacherously gravy and snow smeared stage, succeeding in looking utterly lost, apprehensive, and clueless as he was shown the events surrounding his own ‘death’. The spirit of Hogswatch Future stepped on the scattered remnants of the pie and went flying; in a daze, Vimes kept walking to fall dramatically to his knees by the gravestone marked ‘Scrooge’. He yelped as he did, because a man his age should really think twice about falling dramatically onto anything other than a very soft mattress because his knees did not like this kind of treatment one bit.

* * *

Fred Colon was not having a good day. The world of Theatre was not one in which he was comfortable, and this one was particularly bad. People kept talking to him, then getting annoyed when he answered! Well, not anymore. He was not responding to the name ‘Fred’ until the next morning. He was frantically throwing on a bright red suit, to play his final role as the Hogfather come to join the festivities. The Archchancellor had rigged a pair of broomsticks up to a replica sleigh so he could make an entrance down the aisle, and he was almost ready -

* * *

Igor had only tested his false snow in the basement, where it was naturally damp and the ceiling was made of stone. He had not thought ahead to what would happen in a room where the roof was, in fact, the floor of another room. Or to where the moisture that became snow was being drawn from, or how.  
With an unheard _crack_ , the plaster started to fracture.

* * *

Colon paused at a slight sound, and shook it off. A fine dusting of something white fell over him, and he brushed it roughly off of his shoulder.  
“Damn snow…”  
“Fred, _watch out!”_

* * *

The ceiling collapsed with a roar. Vimes went down alongside the spirit of the future, who had recently regained their feet and was now regretting it.

Sam pushed himself up to sitting, offering a hand to tug Sally up to fresh air as well. Gingerly he got to his feet, looked around the mess, and decided the best plan was to keep going as though nothing had happened. Live the character, so what would a miser like-  
“Alas! Alack! I see now that in the balancing of the books of my life, I am guilty of being all in one column, with none given -”

* * *

Someone pulled the plaster away from Colon’s head, peering at it curiously. Someone poked at the red hat he wore, raising an odd ‘clunk’ that one did not usually associate with fluffy red fur. Gently the hat was lifted, revealing the Watchman’s helmet that Colon had automatically shoved on while changing costume.

Dimly, Colon heard the words that were the cue for the sleigh to emerge triumphantly through the doors.

Unfortunately, no one had considered that the doors were in fact closed. Before the broomstick propelled sleigh, they shattered into splinters as the Hogfather made his entrance.

* * *

Vimes looked up as the sleigh screeched to a halt, bells jingling. Hazy in the grasp of theatrical spirit and possibly mild concussion, he attempted to strike his final pose for the night, one of Awestruck Childish Glee. Unfortunately, thanks to the gradual rain of sort of snow and ceiling plaster and the dangling spotlight glaring straight into his eyes it ended up rather more as a grudging scowl.*4

He opened his mouth, fully intending to belt out his well drilled ‘oh, what Magical Sight Is that Yonder’, accepting the loss of whatever dignity he had left, but instinct took over and what came out was:  
_“What’s all this then?”_  
The Hogfather looked up, eyes gleaming with blue fire even in the dark of the stage.

  
**“HO. HO. HO.”**

* * *

 

 

*1 Angua’s finishing school had, in fact, put on a yearly show, but she had gotten out of taking part. She’d just asked, with a very pleasant smile that showed her teeth, and they had politely agreed, possibly more quickly than was strictly necessary.

*2 The Unseen University Librarian was an orangutan with a deep enjoyment for amateur theatrics and the unshakable belief that if it didn’t involve a flying pie** at any point hitting someone squarely in the face, it wasn’t worth watching. No aspiring thespians dared exclude such a scene now, because if you did the Librarian would add his own projectiles in the form of peanut shells thrown with unerring accuracy

** The Librarian had accepted that it could be a mince pie instead of the traditional custard, in deference to the spirit of the season

*3 He was supposed to be fundraising for the Sunshine Sanctury, but Visit spent a lot of his free time with people trying to slam the door on him when his arms were full of pamphlets and habit took over

*4 Not that anyone noticed, this being the Commander’s default expression


End file.
